


Spiritual Possession

by JB Burge (beggar_always)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beggar_always/pseuds/JB%20Burge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean couldn't get angry with Sam. After all, he'd hurt the kid worse before. (Mostly PreSeries...but slips into a tag to Asylum at the end)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiritual Possession

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to be preSeries sort of stuff, before Sam goes to Stanford, but he's freshly out of high school. (Written 2007)

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair, absently thinking he'd have to get it cut again soon if he didn't want a lecture from his father. Sam swore to himself as soon as he turned twenty he'd let it grow down to his shoulders. Well...at least past his ears. He only had eight months...and a year...to go. Of course, he'd said the same of when he turned eighteen and here he was more than four months past, worrying about the length of his hair.

Sam sighed again and turned his head to look down the street. Dad was late, as usual. He'd dropped Sam at the library just after noon with assurances he'd pick him up at five, when the library closed. Sam had been kicked out twenty minutes ago and Dad still hadn't shown. The concrete bench wasn't exactly getting more comfortable.

Sam shivered involuntarily as a breeze cut through his shirt. The days were still warm, so he hadn't bothered with a jacket, but the evenings started to get cool this late into September. Sam debated calling his older brother. Dean had never been late in picking up his brother. In fact, Dean often went out of his way to be early when it came to picking up Sam. Sam smiled at the memory of Dean skipping detention numerous times just to make sure Sam didn't have to walk home on his own.

He was mid-sigh when his phone rang in his pocket and he smiled as he recognized Dean's number. Dean would have gotten home from the garage a few minutes ago and was probably wondering where the hell his family was. Sam's opinion was validated when he answered.

"Where the hell are you?" Dean barked, with no true bite.

"Library," Sam answered. "Dad was 'sposed to get me half an hour ago, but he's late...as usual." 

Dean matched Sam's sigh. "Where'd he go?"

"He wanted to talk to the widow. I guess she lives in Peyitville."

"Did you find anything?" 

Sam shrugged to himself. "There were references to a couple haunted places, but neither of them were the mill."

"An un-haunted, abandoned mill? Does that happen?" 

Sam laughed a bit. "I guess man. Ya know Dad's still gonna make us check it out. Probably tonight."

"Yeah well...maybe we'll actually find something." 

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean had been itching for action for over a month, since their last true case. Neither brother could figure out why their father had kept them in the same town for almost three months, and even Sam was eager to leave it. Staying in the same town was one thing when he'd been in school, but now it just seemed pointless.

"Want me to come get ya?"

"Nah. I'll wait a few more minutes and then I'll walk back. I'm sure he'll catch up with me when I'm a block from the house."

Dean chuckled at that. His little brother's luck did tend to run toward "un-". "You want spaghetti or chili for dinner?"

"Chili," Sam said automatically as another breeze hit him.

Ten minutes after ending his call with his brother Sam stood, stretching dramatically. He'd barely walked a block when he heard the growl of his father's truck behind him. He took a deep breath and turned around, waiting for the vehicle to stop in front of him.

"What happened to waiting for me?" John asked in an annoyed tone as his youngest son climbed in. He didn't miss the half-glare shot his way.

"You're forty minutes late. I could've been home on my own by now."

"I told you I'd get you at six. I'm early," the father insisted as he resumed driving.

"Five Dad. The library closes at five on Wednesdays. I reminded you before you left." John's jaw clenched a bit.

"Should've called your brother then."

"He called me. About fifteen minutes ago. He said he'd pick me up, but I told him I'd just walk." John grunted a slight response that Sam took for approval as he pulled onto their street. John almost always approved of exercise.

"Bout time you assholes got home!" Dean called from the kitchen when he heard his family come in. Sam and John walked to the kitchen as Dean dumped something else into the pot on the stove.

"Chili?" John questioned as he took his usual seat at the small table.

"Sam's request. You find anything?" Dean wiped his hands on a dish towel as he turned. Both his father and his brother shot back to their feet, catching sight of his swelling left eye.

"What the hell happened?" Sam managed first, taking a concerned step forward. Dean rolled his eyes and slid away to pull bowls from one of the cabinets.

"Dean..." John added in a more commanding tone. His eldest sighed as he set the bowls on the counter next to the stove.

"Harv was having a bad day again," Dean said slowly. "Bea brought him lunch and he tried to take it out on her." Sam winced. He'd caught sight of the bruises of the garage owner's wife himself. There wasn't anyone in a twenty mile radius that believed she was that accident prone. "All the other guys just looked away..."

As Dean turned back to the pot to stir it, Sam and John saw the damaged knuckles. If Dean had bloodied himself, the other guy got a hell of a lot more than a black eye. Younger brother and father shared a glance.

"You get fired?" John asked. Dean tensed slightly but nodded.

"Yes sir. Asshole was gonna press charges, but Jesse and Adam finally stepped up and threatened to tell the cops he attacked me first." Dean jumped a little when John patted him lightly on the shoulder.

"Bea okay?" Dean nodded, making eye contact with his father.

"Adam called his wife and she came and got her. They'll try and convince her to stay away..." John squeezed Dean's shoulder in understanding. While the Winchesters needed the money from that job, John had raised his boys a certain way. And that included treating women with respect.

You could hit one if she was possessed or some sort of creature, but even then only if they were certain she was going to attack. Beating a woman was entirely out of the question and not stopping it from happening by someone else's hand was just as bad. He was proud his son had done the right thing. Dean very easily could have looked away and pretended not to see anything.

"I'll look for another job tomorrow," Dean promised. John waved the comment away as he moved to the fridge, pulling out three beers.

"Don't worry about it. As soon as we get this mill sorted out, we're leaving town." Sam and Dean exchanged glances before each took the can offered.

"So...did you find anything?" Dean asked again as the three men sat at the table, each with a bowl of chili.

"The victim wasn't alone when he died," John said, splashing some salt into his bowl. Both brothers looked up in surprise.

"The paper didn't say..." Sam began before being silenced by a raised eyebrow from his father.

"Mrs. Clarke said her husband went out there with his cousin. Apparently the other man has been missing since. The cops are trying to keep it quiet in case whatever killed Clarke is holding his cousin somewhere."

"Dad, I did the research and I couldn't find anything off about that mill," Sam insisted. "It was only in operation five years, no major accidents, closed simply because they found a better site to build on."

John sighed and took a long drink of his beer. "Well there's something we're missing. Hell, maybe his cousin killed him and took off."

"I can't imagine someone willing to do that to family," Dean muttered, barely suppressing a shudder as he recalled the autopsy photos.

John finished eating first and stood to put his bowl in the sink. "You boys rest up," he said over the sound of the faucet. "I want you to check out the mill tonight." The brothers looked at each other, having expected that.

"What about you?" Dean asked. For the past two years, since Sam had turned sixteen, it hadn't been unusual for John to relegate hunts to his sons, sometimes letting them handle small ones entirely on their own. He'd trained them well and was quickly realizing as a team they'd be better hunters than him someday.

John turned off the tap and glanced over his shoulder at the older son. "I gotta go back to Peyitville. It sounds like there's a poltergeist in the school. Two kids have been hurt already. I don't know how we missed it."

"Dad if it's a poltergeist," Sam spoke up. "Maybe you should let Dean and I help. I mean, there's probably nothing at the mill." Dean nodded in agreement as John looked at his sons. He wondered sometimes what it meant that they worried more about his safety than their own and he shook his head at the recurring thought.

"No Sammy, I'll get it on my own. Someone needs to check out the mill and I don't want either of you doing it solo. If it is just a psycho, I don't want to risk one of you out there without backup. If I think the job's too big for me, I'll back out and wait until you guys can help me tomorrow."

Dean and Sam shared a look that John knew represented their doubt he'd concede if he got in over his head. "If you two crash now you can get in a couple hours before you head out to the mill. Clarke was killed sometime between eleven and twelve. You should probably be out there then."

John left his sons in the kitchen before they could argue with him any further. Sam looked to his older brother but Dean merely shrugged.

They'd go to the mill.

* * *

"So what about the other places?" Dean asked as he and Sam trudged down the slightly overgrown drive to the abandoned saw mill.

"Huh?" Sam grunted in confusion. He'd barely had an hour of light sleep before Dean was slapping his feet to wake him up.

"You said you found out about two other 'haunted' places in the library. Either of them shit we should check out?"

"Nah man," Sam said as he shook his head. "The first one was just another crybaby bridge. I checked the records and there haven't been any fatal accidents on it since it was built twenty years ago. Only even one semi-serious accident and that was in the middle of winter because of ice."

"And the other?" Sam chuckled a bit.

"Another Heaven or Hell in the cemetery." Dean rolled his eyes. "I even found a website that flat out had the pictures showing them as two separate graves."

"Who was kind enough to put that up for us?"

"Local historical society. They had a whole page about old burial practices. It was really pretty interesting..." Sam trailed off as he realized his brother was trying not to laugh. "Shut up," he grumbled with a blush.

Dean grinned and knocked his brother on the back of the head, refusing to acknowledge the fact his younger brother was now nearly an inch taller than him...and still growing.

Dean pushed open the rusty metal door to the mill as Sam pulled out one of the flashlights, the moon being blocked from providing hardly any light inside the building.

"Why would two guys just randomly come out here one night?" Dean wondered aloud as they walked a few feet in. Sam shrugged in the dark.

"Clarke's company still owns the property, even if it hasn't been used since his father ran things."

"So just...sitting around one evening and had a whim to check it out...?" Sam shrugged again and Dean sighed. "I'm gonna check out the offices upstairs. You good out here?" Sam nodded in the affirmative, already sweeping his light in the opposite direction.

* * *

Dean didn't like the way the floorboards creaked under his feet as he moved along the upstairs corridor, so he kept close to the wall as he went into the first office. Finding nothing there, he moved on toward the second room, nose scrunching slightly as he caught a whiff of something pretty much repulsive in scent. He knew that smell and, in hindsight, he'd reflect on how weird his life was if the smell of decay was familiar to him.

Pushing open the door to the second office, Dean gagged slightly. Swallowing heavily he stepped into the room and spotted the corpse in the corner behind the half-rotted desk. Dean knelt next to it, one hand over his nose, the other holding the flashlight. It had once been a middle-aged man, Dean was fairly certain. He said "fairly" because the top half of the man's face was missing, probably thanks to the revolver lying on the floor between Dean and the body. He hadn't been dead too terribly long...a week, Dean was guessing. Any longer than that and the cops would have found him when they searched the place after finding Clarke's body.

Dean was leaning closer to the smelly dead guy when something slammed into him suddenly from behind, forcing him forward onto the corpse.

* * *

Sam thought he heard a noise from somewhere behind him, but when he turned, there was nothing. He shrugged to himself and moved on. He'd already passed the old conveyor belt where Clarke's body had been found, cut up in so many places the medical examiner had barely needed to make an incision for his autopsy.

Sam heard another noise and spun, bringing his shotgun in front of him. He relaxed when he saw it was only his brother. "Dude...what is it you always tell me about sneaking up on people?" Sam asked in exasperation as he lowered his shotgun and flashlight. "Find anything?" Dean shrugged.

"Couple dozen cobwebs," he replied. "You?"

"Nada. Not even a rat." Sam frowned slightly when his brother made no further comment. "Dean you okay?" He sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"

"Stepped on a dead bird upstairs," Dean said absently. "Let's just get out of here." He started to head for the door but Sam held his ground.

"It's not even midnight yet. We should at least stick around 'til then." Sam forced himself not to flinch as he saw his older brother glare back at him. There was no way he should be able to see that kind of glare in the dark.

"I said there's nothing here. You never listen to me, do you?" Sam frowned. Where the hell had that come from?

"What are you talking about, Dean? I always listen to you. Dad's the one I have a problem with sometimes, remember?" He tried to laugh but suddenly found Dean poking him harshly in the chest with the barrel of his shotgun.

"This is all a joke to you, isn't it brother?" Sam had never heard Dean use the word with such venom before. This couldn't be Dean. "You think you can just come here and stay as long as you please." Sam held his arms out in an attempt to placate.

"Whoa man, we can leave if you really want..."

"I am NOT leaving! This was my land first!" Dean shouted angrily. Sam's entire body tensed: this was so not Dean and this was so not good. Before Sam could react, or even fully process his realization, Dean swung his shotgun out, slamming it into the side of his brother's head hard enough to knock the younger man senseless. Sam was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

Sam's skull throbbed. It reminded him of the morning after his father had let him drink until he'd puked. He'd puked a lot more that following morning. But something was more wrong than a few too many swigs of tequila, Sam was sure. He was just trying to convince himself he needed to open his eyes.

Something scuffed against a hard surface nearby and Sam forced his eyelids to lift enough he could squint at his surroundings. Where the hell was he? He turned his head slightly to the side and saw what he lay on from the beam of a nearby flashlight, propped up to illuminate the area. A fucking conveyor belt. Sam was lying on a fucking conveyor belt.

Sam tried to sit up and groaned. Correction: he was tied to a fucking conveyor belt, without a shirt on. Where the hell had his shirt gone?

Sam looked around him again as he tested the ropes tied around his wrists and ankles. Finally, a few feet from his left foot, Sam spotted his brother. "Dean! What's going on?" Sam asked. He vaguely recalled his brother striking him, but hadn't he also decided this wasn't his brother? "Untie me and let's get the hell out of here!" Dean took a step closer to the light and Sam's heart-rate picked up as he noticed the hunting knife in his older brother's hand.

Anyone could be intimidating with a knife...Dean was downright menacing. Sam had spent too many hours watching his brother work with one to doubt his brother's ability.

"Always trying to tell me what to do," Dean spat in a voice that wasn't entirely his own. Sam was quickly realizing Dean was being possessed by something. He'd heard about vengeful spirits being able to possess people, but he'd never actually seen it in person. Until now, he supposed.

"Dean...this isn't you," Sam said as he wriggled some more the closer his brother got to him. "You've got to snap out of whatever you're under and untie me so we can get the hell out of here."

"STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!!" Dean practically screamed. Sam would have covered his ears, had he been able to move his hands.

So maybe talking wasn't the best idea. His older brother finally stood above him and Sam stared up at him in fright. Any doubts his brother was being possessed were erased when he looked up into his brother's eyes. All his life, Sam had known his brother's eyes were green. The eyes he stared up into were bright blue, pupils dilated slightly (though, Sam thought absently, that could be from the dim lighting).

"I'm sick of taking care of you," Dean said and Sam flinched. It easily could have been his own brother saying the words. Dean had taken care of Sam for the past eighteen years; more so than their father had, that was for sure. Dean leaned in closer, so his mouth was near his brother's ear. "You're not even my real brother." Sam stared up at his brother as Dean stood straight again, a small sneer adding to a triumphant look on his face. Sam calmed himself by repeating not real not real not real over and over again in his head.

"What are you going to do?" Sam asked in a soft voice, hoping he wouldn't anger whatever was looking like Dean. He shivered as the cold steel of the knife was traced lightly across his chest.

"I'm gonna make myself feel a hell of a lot better but making you feel a hell of a lot worse," Dean said in a cruel tone.

Sam was caught too off guard to bite back his cry of pain as Dean's knife plunged into his right shoulder. Sam had been stabbed before, a few times, but it had never quite been like this. It'd never been by his brother's hand, for one. And it'd never been while he was completely immobile and unable to do anything but lie still as the blade was yanked free again. He blinked rapidly to keep himself from passing out.

"I just had to get that out of my system," Dean said, turning the knife in the light to look at the blood on it. He smiled as he looked back down at his brother. "The rest will be slower, I promise." Sam's teeth clenched as Dean cut a deep line from just below his left nipple to a point parallel to his navel."Blood's amazingly easy to spill when it's not your own, you know?" Dean grinned as he rested the knife on the side of Sam's left arm, near where it rounded into his shoulder.

"Dean...I am your brother. You've gotta snaaHH," Sam gasped as the knife cut through muscle as it dragged down toward his elbow. He could compare it to the claws of the skinwalker from when he'd been fourteen, but the skinwalker hadn't looked at him with Dean's face.

"I told you not to come here," Dean whispered in an angry voice. "Said I wouldn't feed ya if you did." Sam shuddered involuntarily again as he felt the blade tickle the sensitive skin across his lower abdomen. "So what do you do?" Sam closed his eyes tightly as the blade cut a deep line between his navel and the waistband of his jeans. "You go to my WIFE and ask her for a handout!"

Sam was only mildly surprised when the fist knocked his head to one side. A knife could only get so personal, after all. Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his brother weakly. The wounds on his chest and abdomen weren't truly deep enough to be a problem on their own, but the wounds to his shoulder and arm were bleeding heavily.

"Dean please," Sam whispered, not bothering to hide the tear as he felt the knifepoint rest somewhere near his left collarbone. The blade had just bitten flesh when Sam heard an out-of-place click from somewhere behind Dean.

"Drop the knife," a voice boomed. Dean whirled, keeping a grip on the knife so it pushed a little deeper into his brother. Sam wondered blearily if it was touching bone yet as he turned his head to his left. He could make out a figure in the dark, taking slow steps toward them.

"This is none of your business," Dean growled. "He's mine to do with as I see fit!" Sam bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he forced himself not to scream as the blade did indeed hit bone, sawing across it as Dean pulled the knife free again. He was barely conscious enough to feel the blade at his throat. "If you don't stop where you are, he dies a lot quicker than I'd planned on." Sam blinked slowly as he realized the figure had stopped. It knelt slowly and Sam heard the gun being set on the pavement. Dean smiled as he turned back to Sam.

Sam jerked as Dean was suddenly shoved out of his line of sight. There was a grunt and the sound of flesh striking flesh before Sam could manage to get his vision straight again.

"Dad?" he croaked as the older man suddenly popped up next to him, breathing a little heavier than usual. He looked down at his youngest with a deep frown on his features. "Dean?" Sam asked as his father went about gingerly untying his hands and feet.

"Knocked him out," John said tersely as he looked Sam with a critical eye, triaging wherever he saw blood. "Christ," he muttered aloud without meaning to.

"It wasn't Dean," Sam whispered, more to reassure himself than to really tell his father. John nodded a bit as he took off his jacket. He ripped his overshirt off, popping a few buttons, before using his own knife to cut it into a a few strips. Sam closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as his father tightened the strips around his three worst wounds.

"Let's worry about you first," John suggested. He lifted his son as gently as he could into a sitting position, making sure to aim his legs on the opposite side of the conveyor belt from where Dean lay unconscious on the mill floor. "Can you walk if I help you? Or do I need to carry you?" Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd heard his father sound so genuinely concerned.

"Help me walk," Sam said, sliding off the belt. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled, his father's arms the only thing keeping him from falling face first into the dust and dirt.

"Easy," John said softly, putting an arm around his son's waist as he pulled him up straight again.

"What about Dean?" Sam asked groggily as they weaved toward the door. He'd lost...was losing...more blood than he thought. Not to mention the blows to the head.

"I'll come back for him once I get you to a hospital." Sam stopped in his tracks, effectively forcing his father to do the same.

"No Dad. Don't leave him here. Something's possessing him."

"One of the brothers?" Sam flinched and John frowned: it took a lot to make either of his sons flinch. He sighed. "Just let me get you in the car and I'll go back in for Dean." Sam realized it was the best he was going to get, so he complied, letting his father push him gently into the passenger seat of the Impala, draping his jacket over his son.

Fifteen minutes later they sped down dark roads, Dean unconscious in the back seat with his hands cuffed behind his back, an insistence of John's. Sam was barely conscious himself, huddled in the passenger seat. "The hospital's only another fifteen minutes," John reassured his youngest.

"No hospital," Sam murmured. John looked at him in disbelief.

"Bud, you've lost more blood than I care to think about..." Sam forced himself to sit up a little straighter.

"No hospital. Stab wounds draw too much attention." John cursed himself for using the same excuse before. He saw it differently when they were his own wounds; it wasn't the same where his sons were concerned. "Home is closer anyway." John glanced at Sam and saw the hardened, determined look he unfortunately recognized as being one of his own hereditary gifts to his son. "No hospital. I'm eighteen. My decision."

John swallowed hard as he continued down the road that would take them to their house, but away from the hospital. He didn't want to tell his son he'd been more mature than most eighteen-year-olds since he was ten. He'd certainly been able to make vital decisions concerning his well-being, and the well-being of others, since he was thirteen.

He just wanted, desperately, to take his son to a medical professional. Someone who could pump him full of extra blood in addition to stitching him up. But John recognized the hard look in Sam's eyes, one he'd had many times himself, and he knew even if he'd gone to the hospital, Sam would have fought tooth and nail until they gave up and kicked him out.

John parked the car in the driveway and jogged around the vehicle as Sam opened his door. He was mildly surprised at the string of curse words offered up by his youngest as he was pulled to his feet, but he didn't comment: stab wounds didn't deserve kind language.

"I'll get you and then I'll get your brother," John assured his youngest before Sam could say anything. Sam stumbled alongside his father as John pulled him through the house to the bedroom the brothers shared. He closed his eyes as he sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to pass out.

"Lay back," John ordered, pushing his son down. "I don't want you passing out and falling over." John hurried back out to the Impala and somehow managed to maneuver his oldest son into the house. He dropped him into a kitchen chair, redoing the handcuffs so Dean was cuffed to it. He didn't know for sure if his son would be himself when he regained consciousness and he wasn't taking any chances.

John moved back to Sam, having grabbed the well-stocked first-aid kit from the bathroom. His youngest son's eyes were closed and he almost thought Sam had passed out, but Sam's eyes opened as the floor creaked under his father's boots and turned his head in John's direction to see him. "How's Dean?" he asked.

"Still out," John said, setting the kit on the bed before grabbing the shabby desk chair and pulling it over to sit next to Sam. "He's in the kitchen." Sam clenched his teeth and closed his eyes as his father pulled away the makeshift bandage from his worst wound, the stab wound in his right shoulder. "You need a hospital Sam..."

"Dad..."

"There's gotta be muscle damage with at least a couple of these," John continued angrily as he pulled the bottle of alcohol from the kit. "Serious damage." Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his father. John hoped the tears he saw in them were from pain and not something deeper he'd have to deal with. John had never been good with emotions.

"What's Dean gonna do when he realizes he put me in the hospital?" Sam whispered. "You know he won't even take the time to listen reason." John held his son's gaze a long moment before finally nodding in concession. Sam bit his lip and closed his eyes again as John cleaned the wound.

Sam stayed conscious all the way through the stitching of the first wound, but passed out with a strangled cry as John started on the second, the one just over his left collarbone. John listened to his son's breathing for a bit before he continued on.

John lost count of how many stitches it took somewhere around thirty. They'd definitely need to pick up more wire before they left town. Taping down the last gauze pad on Sam's abdomen, John turned to dig through the kit, shaking his son gently.

"Wake up for a minute, Sammy," he said softly. Sam groaned as John disappeared briefly in the bathroom, coming back with a paper cup filled with water. Sam blinked up at him and saw the pills in his father's hands. "Some antibiotics and a pain pill." Sam stared blankly at them a moment.

"I think I got a concussion," he mumbled. John's eyes widened and he set the cup and pills momentarily on the night stand, leaning closer so he could inspect his son's pupils.

"Follow my finger," he instructed. He sighed when his son did as instructed. "Yeah. Maybe a mild one. You could probably still take the pain killer."

"Just give me the antibiotics," Sam said instead. "I'm gonna pass out again in a minute anyway."

John supported his son as he took the two pills, helping him ease back against the pillow when the water was gone. Sam's eyelids were already drooping again. "I'll wake you up in a couple hours." Sam murmured in understanding and slipped back to sleep.

John stood, feeling more tired than he had in a few years, and bent over to untie Sam's sneakers. Once that was accomplished, he tossed a blanket over him and picked up the first-aid kit, taking it with him to the living room to fill out a list of what they'd need to get to replenish it. Both his truck and the car had their own kits, but he'd rather not take from them if he didn't have to. John sank into the couch and before he could stop himself, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Dean's skull throbbed. It reminded him of the morning after his father had let him drink himself sick. He'd puked a hell of a lot that following morning. But something was more wrong than a few too many shots of whiskey, Dean was sure. He was just trying to convince himself he needed to open his eyes. He slid a little and his eyes shot open as he realized he was seated in a chair. He'd fallen asleep in the kitchen?

"What the..." he began as he tried to sit up straight and realized his hands were cuffed behind his back, looped through the back of the chair so he was attached to it. As he looked down to try and figure it out, he noticed the red on his shirt and he froze. It wasn't his blood. His pulse quickened as images came back to him. Images of him and Sam and a knife. "Oh fuck..." he whispered, trying desperately to get up. He needed to find his brother. He needed Sam to be okay.

He stood with the chair attached and it banged loudly into the table, causing him to stumble back a step and into the wall near the doorway to the living room. He jumped and spun when hands closed around his shoulders.

"Whoa," John said quickly, holding up his hands as he watched his son stumble back, the chair on the floor again. Dean's eyes were wide in fear and confusion and his father knew whatever had held him in the mill had left.

"Dad!" Dean gasped. "Where's Sammy!?" John contained his flinch as he moved forward, key in hand to unlock Dean's cuffs. As soon as Dean was free, he stood, grabbing onto his father's arms. "Where is he?" John heard his son's voice crack for the first time in years and he moved his own hand to rest on Dean's shoulder.

"He's sleeping." Dean sagged back into the chair in relief.

"I didn't kill him?" he whispered shakily. John shook his head and squeezed Dean's shoulder.

"You cut him up a fair amount," John wasn't about to sugarcoat it for his eldest. "But he should be okay."

"Thank god," Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his face before he looked at his father again. "I need to see him." John nodded in understanding and stepped back as Dean stood. He followed after his son.

Dean stood frozen in the threshold of his bedroom, eyes fixed on Sam's figure, illuminated slightly by early morning light. Sam's face was turned away, but Dean could tell it was pale. He was covered to just above mid-chest with a blanket, but Dean could see a couple of the bandages poking out. Seeing the slight red spot through one of the bandages, Dean gagged and turned quickly, pushing past his father. John sighed as he heard his son retch in the bathroom and stepped back to the kitchen.

Dean was trembling when he finally stood, flushing the toilet before he moved to the sink to rinse his mouth out and wash his face. His hand shook as he turned off the faucet and he jumped at the sound of wood creaking, turning quickly to see his dad in the doorway. John silently held out a cold can of Sprite. Dean took it and gratefully took a swig, letting it help get rid of the rancid taste in his mouth that water alone hadn't been able to conquer.

"You all right?" John drawled, leaning against the door frame as Dean slid down to sit on the tile, back propped against the tub.

"I..." Dean shivered visibly and John frowned. Stepping into the bathroom, he reached under the cabinet for a towel before turning to kneel and wrap it around his son's shoulders. Nothing would get solved if Dean went into shock.

"I almost killed him," Dean whispered. John took the can of soda away from him as Dean's hand shook more. "I can remember what it felt like to..." Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "To pull that knife out of him."

John's jaw clenched. It was like Dean's first human kill all over again. The man had been psychotic, and Dean had killed him in self defense, but it'd almost broken the young man. One of the only rules in the Winchesters' book was 'don't kill humans', and Dean almost hadn't been able to handle breaking it. It'd taken nearly a month before John could get him to even touch a weapon again. Almost two before he went on another hunt. And that had barely been a year past.

Dean tensed as John sat next to him, putting an arm slowly around his son's shoulders. Physical signs of comfort were virtually non-existent in the Winchester household, but John had long ago realized they were sometimes necessary. He waited until Dean relaxed slightly before speaking in the low voice he'd only ever used for his sons.

"Sammy's gonna be just fine," John promised. "He'll sleep a couple of days and be back to annoying the hell out of us." Dean shivered slightly. "He knew it wasn't you, Dean," John said softly. He felt his son stiffen next to him. "Made me take care of you just as much."

"I'm supposed to look out for him," Dean whispered, somewhat miserably. John sighed and pulled his son closer. He hated that it had been him who'd enforced such responsibility in Dean. It was a necessary evil of their lives.

"You do, Dean. I know that. Sammy knows it. You're always saving his ass." Dean took a shaky breath.

"How did you know to come?" Dean asked in a quiet voice. John frowned, knowing his son was bottling his emotion yet again. Not that he wanted his son to be as outwardly emotional as a teenaged girl, but he recognized there were some times emotion was necessary. John had seen too many of his buddies in the Corps suffer from their inability to express fear, hate, sadness or even joy.

"I had to stop by the Clarke home in Peyitville before I could go to the school," John began. "When I was leaving, Mrs. Clarke made a comment about it being a shame the mill was even still standing in the first place. I asked her why and she told me a story...you know the kind, her daddy handed it down from his daddy." Dean nodded slightly and John moved his arm away, knowing his son would be shrugging it off in a minute anyway as he got a deeper grip on himself.

"That used to be a farm," John continued. "Back around the turn of the century, two brothers lived there. One of them had a family and actually owned the land, the other just stayed there. It seems the older brother, the one who owned the farm, got fed up with the younger brother one day. Cut him up so he bled to death. The bastard was so distraught afterward, he went into the house, told his wife what he'd done, and slit his own wrists. The wife couldn't stop the bleeding.

"They tore up the farm a few years later, built the mill. But Mrs. Clarke said part of the reason they left that site was too many of the descendants of that farmer protested it's place on what had been their family's land. As soon as she mentioned 'brothers' though..."

"You thought of Sam and I?" John nodded.

"I drove as fast as I could. Neither of your phones would even ring through."

"No signal," Dean muttered.

"I'm glad I got there in time." Dean assumed he just meant in time to stop the older brother from killing the younger. John didn't know how to say he'd feared the loss of both his sons. There was no doubt in his mind what Dean would have done to himself if he'd realized he'd killed Sam, possessed by a spirit or not.

John looked at his son's profile and saw the new bruise that was joining his already swollen eye. He winced sympathetically, knowing he was responsible for it. "You should get some rest," John said. Dean gave him an incredulous look and John stood, holding out his hand to pull Dean to his feet. "I was getting ready to go to bed myself when you started thumping around the kitchen. Your brother's resting fine; there's no reason to stay up worried."

Dean looked nervously in the direction of the bedroom he shared with Sam and John sighed. "Go to my room." Dean looked at him quickly. "I'll use your bed. But this ain't gonna be a permanent fix, got it?" Dean nodded absently and pushed past his father to pick up the Sprite can from the sink before he headed on down the hall to the master bedroom.

John sighed and ran a hand over his tired face. He knew the only thing that was going to fix Dean was Sam, and the kid just wasn't up to it yet. John stepped into his sons' bedroom and took the few steps to Sam's bedside, knowing it was time he woke him up for a check anyway. He shook his son gently and Sam's eyes flew open as he drew in a sharp breath.

"Easy," John said in his low voice, watching as Sam visibly relaxed at the sound of it. "Tell me something so I know your brain's still intact." Sam rolled his eyes and John would've accepted that as answer enough. After several concussion watches, the Winchesters had gotten bored with the general questions and decided they weren't really all that important.

"You need a shave," Sam grumbled, closing his eyes again. John smiled and patted his knee.

"Yeah well...you need a haircut." Sam groaned a bit as he slipped back to sleep. John kept his smile as he stretched out on Dean's bed on the other side of the room, keeping mindful of the knife he knew Dean kept under his pillow.

* * *

Sam's eyes flew open with a gasp, the memory of a knife flashing through his mind. "Sammy?" a voice questioned from the other bed. The young man jerked and looked across the room, sun pushing through the thin curtains.

"Dad?" he asked in confusion as his father got out of his brother's bed. "Where's Dean?" he asked in concern, trying to sit up. John pushed him back gently, seeing the pain pop up across his son's features.

"Sleeping in my room," John replied, hoping he wouldn't have to explain it. Sam frowned as his head rested against the pillow again. His wounds throbbed in concert with his head and he swallowed thickly to control a wave of nausea.

"Why's he in your room?" Sam asked in concern. John sighed and sat in the chair that was still next to the bed. Sam matched his father's sigh and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "God he's an ass." John chuckled slightly and Sam looked at him. John took a deep breath and turned serious.

"I was worried a minute it'd be as bad as Ithaca." Sam frowned deeply at the reference. "He calmed down a bit, but he looked downright terrified when I told him to go to bed and he thought about coming in here." Sam tried to push himself up again. John recognized the stubbornness and helped Sam sit up this time instead of forcing him back down.

"I gotta go kick his ass," Sam grumbled as he tried to push himself to his feet. John shook his head and kept him down, finding it hard to press on a place that wasn't injured.

"You need rest son," John insisted. "You're still too weak to be running around." Sam clenched his teeth as a wave of pain agreed with his father.

"Well then get the dumbass and bring him in here." Sam made eye contact with his father. "You know the longer we leave it the worse he'll get." John only hesitated a moment before nodding. He propped the pillow up behind Sam before he stood.

"If he won't come, you're still staying in bed," John said sternly. "Tomorrow I might let you out of bed long enough to kick his ass, but you're only getting out of that bed today if you have to piss." Sam flipped his father off good-naturedly as the older man left the room for his own.

Dean shot up in bed the second John pushed the door open. He looked around in momentary confusion before his expression sobered and he scrubbed at his face with both hands. "What time is it?" he mumbled into his palms.

"Just after noon," John answered. "Sam's awake." Dean looked up quickly, something between fear and relief in his eyes. "He wants to see you." Dean looked nervously to the hallway and John sighed. "You're gonna have to go in there for clothes eventually."

"Nah. We're close enough I can wear yours." John's eyes narrowed at Dean's attempt at distraction. Dean looked away, staring intently at his feet. John sighed and decided he'd have to play dirty.

"Your brother's asking for you. You tortured him Dean, I think you owe it to him to face him now." Dean's eyes shot up and he looked at his father in disbelief. Dean knew it was true, but he hadn't expected his father to say as much. John rolled his eyes and turned halfway. "Just talk to him, Dean. Tell him why it happened, at least." John walked away, to the kitchen, Dean judged from the sound of cabinets being opened.

Dean stared at his feet for another five minutes before he took a deep, and slightly shaky, breath. He slid off his father's bed and slowly walked down the hall toward his bedroom, pausing just outside the doorway to look in.

Sam was propped up in his own bed, sitting with his back against the headboard, head back and eyes closed. The blanket only went to his waist and Dean could see all the bandages: five in total. Every one for wounds inflicted by his hand. He took an involuntary step forward as he felt a bit dizzy and the movement was enough for Sam's head to snap up, turning to look at Dean.

Dean's heart thudded in his chest as his brother made eye contact with him. He stood frozen, torn between throwing himself at his brother's bedside, begging forgiveness, or running out of town. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You're a fucking idiot," the younger brother said softly. Dean continued to stare at him, eyes shifting more to the damaged chest. Sam swung his legs around to the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. Dean rushed forward on instinct as his brother swayed, catching Sam with gentle hands. Sam smiled up at his brother as he sat heavily again. He gripped Dean's forearms and directed his brother to sit in the chair John had used previously.

"Jesus Sammy..." Dean whispered when his senses had mostly caught up to him. Sam shook his head.

"You didn't do this Dean. I mean...I sure as hell worried it was you at first. But now I know it wasn't you. Dad taught you about spirit possessions just like he taught me..." Dean shook his head too.

"I should have resisted..."

"Dude...you can't resist a possession," Sam said. He sighed and let go of his brother to lean back a bit, easing the strain on his abdomen.

"Dad tell you about it?" Dean whispered. His brother shook his head again. "That mill used to be a farm. There were two brothers...the younger one lived on his brother's land. The older brother got sick of it and killed his brother. Then he killed himself. The spirit of the older brother gets two guys in there...it's prime for him to reenact his final moments.

"I...remember what he was thinking," Dean said quietly. "I...he...was so angry at you...his brother." Dean closed his eyes and turned his head away. Sam kicked his brother's shin and Dean looked at him in surprise.

"Quit moping, bitch," Sam teased with a small smile. "I'm the one that got filleted. What'd you get? A headache?" Dean stared at his brother. Sam was giving him an out. It'd be so easy just to laugh and take it....

Dean stood quickly and took a few steps toward the door. "Dean," Sam spoke firmly. The older brother turned to see the younger standing steadily from the bed and Dean wondered idly if the sway before had been a ruse to pull him in before. In truth, it was taking all of Sam's energy reserves to stay upright without wavering.

"This was shit...I know," he said softly. "I'm gonna see you with that knife every time I go to sleep for a long time." Dean's expression contorted into something resembling anguish and Sam resisted rolling his eyes again. "But whenever I wake up, I'm gonna know it wasn't you.

"You get pissed at me, don't deny it. You get frustrated that you've had to take care of me..." Dean started to open his mouth but Sam glared at him. "Shut up Dean and let me finish or so help me I'll come over and knock this into you myself." Dean was taken back by Sam's aggressive tone. Sam was always the calm one. "We've gotten in our share of fights. But I know, without a doubt, that you would never do what that asshole did to his brother."

"But I did do it!" Dean said loudly, waving a hand towards Sam's chest as proof. Sam did roll his eyes at that.

"Not you, Dean. Him. And you know I've had worse." Dean did know, but he didn't want to think about those times. "What's going to hurt me more is watching my brother avoid me. You're the only..." Sam paused and swallowed.

"I hate this life, man," Sam continued softly. "You keep me sane. I can't lose that just 'cause you're afraid of hurting me. You can't not hunt with me just 'cause you're afraid another spirit's gonna come along and possess you. Hell...in our line of work it's bound to happen again. Maybe to me next time. Maybe to you again. Maybe to both of us at the same time by the spirits of two dead hookers! It's a hazard of the job man."

Dean tried so hard not to let Sam break his shell. But he couldn't get the image out of his head of him and his brother pulling and scratching at each other's hair screaming 'harlot' and 'whore' at each other.

Sam caught the half snort from his brother and smiled. A second later he watched in satisfaction as his brother threw back his head and laughed. He took the opportunity to sit back down on his bed, using a smile to cover up his grimace. Dean calmed himself after a minute and looked seriously at his brother.

"We're good?" he asked worriedly. Sam smiled.

"We're good big brother," he assured softly. "But I totally get a rain check on getting possessed and kicking your ass." Dean returned his brother's grin and moved forward to mess up his brother's hair.

"Yeah...'cause you'd need a spirit to be able to kick this finely toned ass."

* * *

\------_AFTER ASYLUM_\------

Sam glanced up at his brother's face as he pulled out the last piece of rock salt, wincing himself as Dean did. He tried to be gentle as he spread on the antibiotic ointment, but his older brother still hissed through his teeth.

"Sure we're good?" Sam asked softly as he taped a gauze pad over the rawest area of flesh. Dean watched his younger brother's ministrations for a moment. He couldn't get angry with Sam. After all, he'd hurt the kid worse before. Dean waited on Sam to look at him before he answered.

"We're good little brother," he assured softly. His mouth quirked up slightly. "You totally used up that rain check though." Sam rolled his eyes but still smiled as he stood.

"And what about the one from San Antonio?" Dean's smile faltered and he blushed slightly. Sam laughed softly as he moved to put the supplies back in the first aid kit. "We're good man." The brothers made eye contact across the room and Dean nodded.

"Hazard of the job," Dean murmured as he leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

"Here." He opened them again to see Sam standing over him, fist out to offer something. Dean held out his palm and accepted the pills given to him, trusting whatever Sam handed him. "For what it's worth, I am sorry." Dean looked up at his brother for a long moment and knew he meant it. Dean rolled his eyes.

Apology accepted.

/end


End file.
